The King {& Queen} In the North (WolfeBlitz)

Caroline's grip had been so hard on her daughter's shoulders that it had left marks in her pale skin. After a long night and morning being held against her mother's breast, Sarita was finally able to breath when she was led away with the other children of District Eight. The girl felt strangely calm, not like the other girls that surrounded her. One of them kept rubbing her palms together, and another one was whispering something under her breath. A phrase over and over that Sarita couldn't quite make out. It was if the eldest Wolfe daughter was standing in the eye of a storm, surrounded by fear and destruction but completely safe herself.

The girl had decided the night before that this ritual was nothing to be afraid of anymore. In fact it could be what she had wanted for so long, sitting beside her window in the Coldhouse and looking over the District to the fencing that marked the end of its boundaries. Maybe in the Capitol she could escape the crushing embrace of her mother and the memory of their father that had haunted the woman since his death.

The escort walked across the platform, reaching into the ball of slips that held all the girls of Reaping age in District Eight. Everyone was silent in that moment, even the chanting girl beside her. Sarita did not remember being scared in that moment. Whatever happened she couldn't lose. Stay here and live the life of a dead girl or go to the Capitol and die living a true life. This was a game rigged in her favor.

Sarita Wolfe learned a very valuable lesson the day of the 62nd Reaping- you cannot cheat the game of life. She had thought she could play this little game of slips and come out on top but she ended up even lower than before. She had never even been a player in it, only a spectator with no power over anything. That was even worse.

Aria Wolfe!

Terror hit the girl like a brick, knocking all of the air out of her lungs. For a few moments she couldn't breath or even think. She just watched her sister's figure mount the stage. Her strong sister, the one who did not waste away her life on needlework. The one Wolfe girl who stood a chance in this game. Aria could do it. Out of all of us she could come home. Sarita allowed herself the luxury of air at last only for it to escape again so quickly.

Bran Wolfe!

There were no words anymore. Terror, horror- they weren't strong enough to describe the emotions building up in her chest. My little brother and sister are being sent to the Wall and there was not a single thing I can do but watch. She wanted to scream. Sarita wanted to yell at the men in white, to shriek that they were not taking her siblings to the Wall. They couldn't. She wouldn't let them.

Sarita had never been strong enough to even make a peep. Her eyes followed Aria and Bran as they were ushered into the Justice Building, her protests still caught in her throat. Useless. Pathetic. Stupid. How ignorant of a girl to believe that she was safe. There is no middle ground. A foolish girl who had forgotten to breath since the names were called. A dim child who fell to the ground just as the doors to the Justice Building closed.

In life the monsters win.

-*-

For once in her life, Sarita was the forgotten child. Her mother had walked right past with Ricky in tow, Rajas was already helping Bran and Jon- Sarita had lost sight of him. So slow to act, even the Peacekeeper she had to speak to to say goodbye to her siblings doubted her. Eventually, he did let her pass to wait outside the door for her three minutes, as most of the family had already slipped in to do the usual hugging and sobbing. She would have to wait for her turn with the tributes.

Tributes. That's what you are when you're Reaped. That's all you're ever be remembered for when you die. Once branded with the name of tribute it becomes you. Will anyone ever remember Aria and Bran for who they are? How horrid Aria's needlework is or Bran's love of stories? That's one of the blows the Games give, they take your family and change them. Sarita did not want to remember her siblings by their kill count or death day. She wanted her memories to be of Bran's smile and Aria's tangles. Of their favorite foods and months, not the favored weapon. Looking down at her feet, Sarita examined her Reaping day shoes trying not to dwell on what was to come.

She did not have to wait long before her mother burst out of the room, not even pausing to look at her. Her eyes were ringed with red, and her legs were determined to carry her as far away from the room as possible. With the door opened, Sarita did not hesitate before darting into it, the man in white shutting the door behind her.

Flying across the room, Sarita went to the nearest of her tribute siblings- Bran. Bending over she threw her arms around him, holding his shoulders tightly. What words could she offer him? What advice could she give to her little brother? Nothing of any value, that's for sure. He was young and he had to be terrified of this whole ordeal. Kneeling down beside him, Sarita ran a hand through his dark hair, pushing it back from his pale face to look him in the eye.

"Stay safe my brave knight," she whispered, laying a kiss on his cheek. That's all she could offer him- she could not even tell him to come home. At least one of her siblings had to die for the other to come back to District Eight. That was the most terrifying part- even if one comes home the Wolfe family will never come out of this unmarred. She looked at him again, her eyes starting to well up with tears. Her Bran. Her poor broken brother, her knight in shining armor. Sarita said her goodbye with a squeeze of his hand before standing up to face the other one. How cruel to have to make two goodbyes in three minutes.

Aria looked so strange in Sarita's old Reaping clothes. Her little sister was about dirt and sweat not lace and frills. She hardly looked herself in them, except for the bony shoulders poking the material that gave her away. It was evident that of all the Wolfe family, Sarita was not the one she had wanted to see. However, she still walked over to pull her into a tight hug. As strained as their relationship had been, it was painful to let go. Words for Aria were even more scarce as they were for Bran. She could take care of herself, she could fight, she could win. But even Aria winning would be mourning for Bran. There was no way they could win this twisted game. It was pitted against them and there were no instructions on how to win a rigged game. Words of comfort, Sarita thought, would mean little to Aria.

Sarita pushed her little sister's hair out of her face and behind her ear. She thought about her sister- the strong frame and quick tongue that had made up Aria Wolfe into someone that Sarita would remember as more than just a tribute and then the words came freely to her lips.

"Fight hard, Aria Underfoot," the childhood name had been invented as an insult many years ago, but in that moment it was making tears collect in Sarita's eyes and her fingers held onto her sister's wrists. She couldn't say "good-bye." Those simple words were not ones she would allow herself to say. Stepping back she offered each sibling a small smile before turning towards the door.

Father used to say that although the lone wolf dies, the pack survives. Right now, Sarita wasn't so sure about that.